Muse, Interrupted

Stories lost in no man’s land,

ideas fleeting through the mind,

before one could catch them,

be possessed by them

we do manage to catch

ideas, dead, dry like creepers hanging on to empty skeletons of their former selves,

characters who refuse to open up their souls to you,

a medley of distractions,

chasing without a target, rhyme, reason

 

the muse, how long will she wait?

and why?

we all believe we’re special

raised on a diet of pulped up culture

and peppy psychology of winning

we’ve turned the mirrors into disco lights

we’re dazzled by their empty iridescence

and when

at the end of the day

we turn ’em off

we wonder why we didn’t

get enough done

and perfect that we are

in our own exalted images of selves

we find an honorable blame

enough to prove our conscience

a generic, opaque fallibility

 

we fail like everyone else

but we want to succeed like no one has

and we don’t

the muse leaves

to better homes, or better prospects at any rate

and we stare

at the emptiness

in disbelief

a shallow incomprehension

because we’ve lost

the habit of hanging on

to a futile looking dream

like the creepers, almost dead